


Piece it back together

by toby_or_not_toby



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Depression, Family Feels, Gen, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:49:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22178077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toby_or_not_toby/pseuds/toby_or_not_toby
Summary: Connor had plans for days like this. Make Hank eat food, drink water, take meds. Call Hank's psychologist, book an appointment. Actually get Hank out of the house, if at all possible.Connor breathed, letting the crisp air wash over his processors.They had gotten through this before, they could get through it again. He just needed to keep some levity.---Hank faces a shitty mental health week, but this time, he's got Connor to help him through it.
Relationships: Hank Anderson & Connor
Comments: 13
Kudos: 95





	Piece it back together

**Author's Note:**

> I want to give a massive thanks to [Kara_J](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kara_J/pseuds/Kara_J) for betaing this fic. She is a freaking legend. Check out her profile for even more awesome dbh fic!

Connor had a list of things he did at night. Humans needed to sleep, at least eight hours for every twenty-four.

Androids didn't.

Connor listened to music. Hank had given him a list of artists to get through, but he found that every band led to three more he wanted to explore.

Human music was fascinating.

Connor also read. Books, graphic novels, old newspaper articles. Everything accessible was fair game.

He worked a little bit, tying off loose bits of Hank’s and his paperwork.

And he trimmed, compiled, processed and stored the memories of each day, running system defrags as needed.

It all kept him fairly busy in the stretches of time Hank spent unconscious.

Not that Hank was too good at the '8 hour' thing.

Ah well. Connor wasn't always that good at the 'daily system defrag' thing.

(It was boring, okay? Connor had the internet at his disposal, and he'd have to disconnect from that to defrag, and ergh.)

It was Tuesday, October 4, 2039.

Connor was worried. He didn't want to admit to that, exactly. Admitting to difficult emotions was, well...

He'd seen changes in Hank's behaviour over the past two weeks or so. He'd gotten quieter, joked less. He hadn't drank any alcohol, but Connor had seen him gripping his sobriety chip as they traveled between crime scenes.

The last few days, Hank slept longer, heavier. He'd hit 13 consecutive hours on Sunday before Connor snarked him out into the kitchen, and then out for a walk with Sumo.

Yesterday had been hard. Hank hadn't seemed to be able to focus. Connor had picked up the slack.

Now Connor's eyes were fixed on the clock hanging on the living room wall. No matter how many times he adjusted it, it always lagged behind his internal timekeeper, but, as far as Hank was concerned, it did the job, and 'why the fuck'd I need a new clock when I've got one living in my house, Connor?'

The clock clicked over. 8am. Hank's alarm started to buzz in his bedroom.

Connor put the kettle on, ground the coffee. He fed Sumo. He watered the meagre vegetation out the front of Hank's house.

Hank's alarm was still buzzing 20 minutes later.

Connor didn't want to jinx it, but…

He knocked on Hank's door. No answer. He pushed it open.

The curtains were drawn, tight. The light that managed to limp through the cracks was decked out in dust moats.

Hank lay curled under the blankets. His hand was stretched in the vague direction of the alarm clock, but it seemed to have run out of steam halfway through its journey. His eyes were open, but blank.

Connor's memory bank provided the parallel image of Daniel's eyes, hunched over on the rooftop. He shivered, and dismissed it.

"Hank?" he tried.

Nothing.

_Dammit._

He walked in, reached down, turned the alarm clock off.

Then he turned around and left, closing Hank's door behind him.

\---

He had plans for days like this. He'd built them up slowly. Make Hank eat food, drink water, take meds. Call Hank's psychologist, book an appointment. Actually get Hank out of the house, if at all possible.

Connor started by calling them both in sick. The precinct was busy, and Fowler wasn't happy about it, but he'd known Hank longer than Connor had. He understood.

(Fowler said he'd just make Gavin and Richard pick up the slack. Connor had needed to bite back a chuckle).

Then Connor took Sumo out, alone.

They paced through the park, Sumo stopping every 10 seconds to tug at the leash and nose around.

Connor breathed, letting the crisp air wash over his processors.

They had gotten through this before, they could get through it again.

He just needed to keep some levity.

Deep breaths. Okay. Let's go.

\---

Connor put Voyager on in the kitchen, turned it up loud.

They played lighter music than Hank's usual fair, but heavier than Connor's.

Boom. Compromise. He got this.

He'd given Hank until 12pm, because sleep really was important. But so was waking up.

Connor was one of the most intelligent androids ever built, and he had come up with an ingenious way to get healthy food into Hank.

… He'd hidden spinach in a plate of mac and cheese.

He pushed his way back into Hank's room slowly, and set down his spoils on the bedside table, then cracked the curtains, letting the sun through inch by inch.

And Hank's eyes were open again, clearer.

Connor took two steps over to Hank’s bed, then snatched up a pillow and hurled it at Hank’s face.

“Connor! What the hell-”

“It is past both breakfast and lunch time, Hank,” Connor barreled on. He kept a smile on his face, but a small one. It was important not to be too intimidating. “If you don’t consume some food, I will be forced to take further measures.”

“If you dunk me, I swear to gd-”

“You have,” Connor paused, looking down at a nonexistent watch, “four minutes. Good luck.”

Hank stared at him for a moment, blinking, and then something in his face seemed to break.

“Connor. Shit. I can’t.”

Okay. Too much. Too soon.

Connor heaved in a breath, steadied himself.

“I just need you to finish half of it. Then get out of bed, for ten minutes if that is all you can handle.”

Hank’s eyes had been teetering back towards that blankness Connor _hated_ , but at that he blinked again.

“...Yeah. Alright. Just gimmie some space, yeah? Aw, fuck, I’m sor-”

“No need, Hank. I’ll be back in five.”

\---

Hank finished three quarters of the meal, and even brought it out to the kitchen, where Connor had sat himself down at the table, running a hand through Sumo’s fur.

Hank stumbled through the hallway, but made it to the kitchen, dumping his plate into the sink. And then he froze.

Vacant blinking. Connor’s _favourite_ expression.

Step 36 on the Bad Day™ plan: get out of the house.

Connor stood up. He already had Sumo’s lead curled on the chair next to him. He grabbed it.

He led Hank out of the kitchen with an arm around his shoulder, helped him shrug on a coat in the hall.

Hank muttered something, but even with his top-of-the-line audio units, Connor couldn’t pick it out.

Then Connor ushered his friend through the doorway, down the steps, and bundled him into the passenger seat. Sumo trotted faithfully along behind them, nose butting against the back of Connor’s knees.

And Connor had an idea.

Usually Sumo was confined to the back seats for car journeys, but…

Connor turned around and, in one smooth movement, picked the giant Saint Bernard up and deposited him onto Hank’s lap.

Hank yelled, head snapping up, arms flailing as he was assaulted with a 240lb bundle. Even Sumo seemed a little confused, but he got over it quickly, and started attacking Hank’s face with his tongue.

Hank’s eyes were wide and petulant as they turned their indignation on Connor.

And Connor was grinning, then laughing, the sound bubbling out of his vocal modulator before he could think to stop it. He tried to muffle the noise with his hand, but then he saw Hank’s face start to tip into an answering grin, and he didn’t bother.

Instead, ignoring the protests, he shut the door on the two of them and made his way around to the driver’s seat.

And they were off.

\---

Connor didn’t take them to the bench this time. Or to Chicken Feed. Those places held too many memories.

Instead he drove out, until the lake was in plain view, unencumbered by ports and boats and people.

Hank had leaned his chair back and passed out again, a very heavy dog splayed out on his chest.

Connor was fine with this. It meant he got to pick the music.

He kept a map running behind his eyes. There was a coffee shop near here that was rated highly, by humans and androids alike. They sold all manner of human drinks, but they also had a programmer on staff, to piece together packets of emotion.

This little shop, just on the edge of the suburban sprawl, sold human and android items in pairs. Coffee and _alert_. Tea and _calm._ Hot chocolate and _warmth_.

Connor parked, but left the car running. He ordered hot chocolate for Hank and the _warmth_ data packet for himself. He had stashed some dog treats in the glove box too, so Sumo wouldn’t feel left out.

The woman at the counter smiled when she handed over his goods. Then Connor saw her eyes flicker up to his LED, and her eyes crinkled at the corners, her smile a tad softer. She signed something to the barista, and he looked up from the machine, gave Connor a once over, and nodded.

He had bright orange hair, to match his bright orange eyes.

Connor nodded back, to the both of them, and took his leave.

\---

He pulled up by a pier, letting the engine run for a moment as he checked for company, then he turning the car off.

He knew Hank wasn’t asleep anymore. Having constant access to someone’s biometric data could really be quite useful.

“Come on,” he said, and picked up the cup, the data packet, and the dog treats. Sumo’s head bobbed up at the last one.

Connor left the car. He’d give Hank ten minutes to get up himself, before offering assistance.

Hank was out in five, Sumo leashed by his side.

They walked out to the edge of the pier.

Connor helped Hank sit down, feet dangling over the edge, and then joined him, shoulder to shoulder. Sumo whined, but then flopped down behind them with a grunt.

Connor gave him a treat for his good behaviour. He handed Hank his drink, then took his data packet out of its container.

He ran a cursory scan for malware, then downloaded and executed the instructions, letting the warmth buzz through his extremities and settle around him like a blanket. It was well coded.

For a while, they watched the waves as they lapped against the pylons below.

Connor knew he couldn’t rush this part. He was content to sit and watch the water, picking apart the foreign code, saving it to his data banks.

Hank, eventually, broke the silence.

“It’s the day soon, y’know?” he said, his voice cracking, staticy. Like North’s got, when she was upset.

Connor glanced over at him. The hand that was curled on the edge of the pier was white knuckled. The one holding the cup was shaking.

“I know,” he responded, simply.

Sometimes Hank needed jeering, ribbing. Other times he needed long monologues, with gaps to fill with his own words.

Right now, Connor knew he needed silence.

“And I can’t help thinking. What would he think of me? I was his hero. I was good at my job. I did shit with my life! And now-”

Hank trailed off. Connor let him, but he leaned a little closer, let the warmth from himself and Sumo bracket Hank in place.

Hank gulped in a breath, but continued.

“If he could be here now. I’d just drag him down with me, right? Like I drag down all the dickheads at work. Or. Like I drag you.”

Okay. So. You know how Connor had said three seconds ago that he was going to just let Hank talk?

He lied.

“You gave me a home, Hank,” he cut in. “You fought for me before I could fight for myself. Then you fought for my job, for my life, for the friends I’d managed to snag somehow. And you’re still fighting, every day at the precinct, to make this world better. If Cole could see you now, we both know that he’d be proud.”

Hank bowed his head, lifting a hand to scrub at his face.

“Fuck you. You don’t know that.”

The words didn’t have any heat. Connor let them slide, like the water below them, washing in, hitting, but then washing away.

He knew Hank didn’t believe him now, not fully. Maybe he’d never be able to.

But that was okay. They would both, as the humans said, ‘keep on keeping on.’

\---

They stayed at the pier until the sky started to darken, until Sumo started to whine. 

Sumo stayed in the back of the car this time, but Hank picked out some music.

And Hank didn’t go back to work the next day, or the day after that.

But they were both back at the precinct by Friday afternoon.

\---

They visited Cole’s grave on Saturday. Sumo had been left at home this time, because he had an embarrassing habit of trying to eat the graveyard flowers.

Connor wore a black jacket and tie, rather than his usual blue. Hank wore a Knights of the Black Death t-shirt, which was close enough.

It was raining, which was appropriate, ambiance wise.

Connor had driven them, again, and he would drive them back too.

For now, he held the umbrella, and just waited, as Hank put down the flowers, as he stood there silently, in the cold, and didn’t cry.

On the walk back to the car, Hank looked at him, eyes tired, but present.

“Thank you,” was all he said.

And that was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Once, when I was in a pretty rough depressive episode, my dad put me in the car and drove me out to the sea. We ate chocolate cake and watched the waves. I dont remember much from that particular span of months, but the beach trip really stands out to me. I can't begin to say how much the trip meant to me at the time.
> 
> So basically, I wrote it but with Connor and Hank. Hope you folks enjoy!


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